Keeping Him Grounded
by Starluff
Summary: John was always the one to conduct light and ground Sherlock's flights of fancy. He needs to reassert Sherlock's focus, now more than ever.


_**Written for the prompt on the Watson's Woes: "A time Watson played along and pretended to be fooled by Holmes". This is, like, the greatest prompt. Ever. Seriously, I have a thousand and one ideas and not enough time to write them all. In fact, I had a problem trying to decide which one I would write. All the comm members should write for this one, if nothing else. Like seriously. It is that good.**_

_**Funny thing is that I started writing this for ACD-canon, because it's my main/default verse, but I realized that it would work better in BBC. Timeline-wise, it's set sometime after John's marriage. I'd say John and Sherlock have known each other for at least a decade by this point, maybe even two.**_

_**Warnings for the murder of a child; this one plummeted into dark territory before I even realized it. I like it, though. I feel like it's a good show of John's and Sherlock's professional relationship. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**_

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Sherlock had his back turned to me, a hand on his face. We were in the living room of the flat we used to share (I moved out, of course, after I got married, but I was a guest often enough). I stared at his rigid profile but said nothing and let him hide whatever it was he needed to hid, even though I could more or less imagine what his face would convey if I did see it. Instead, I reached out for my cup of tea and took a sip, giving Sherlock the time he needed to calm down. When Sherlock turned around again, I kept my face carefully neutral. When Sherlock looked into my eyes, I met it calmly.

"That was a...minor setback," Sherlock said. It was a sad attempt at his usual detached self but it was the best he could do at this point. He was clearly distressed, though perhaps only I could see how deeply; his breathing was slow and controlled, his eyes darting about everywhere. His usual suave voice was shaking minutely and his hands were jittery and unable to stay still, fiddling with his buttons or being shoved into his pockets only to be pulled out the next moment to be rubbed against each other. In fact, if there were someone from the Yard here right now (aside from Lestrade, of course) I think they would have started accusing Sherlock of heartlessness by now. Not that he has never been accused of it, and I believe that he has been very heartless on a few occasions, but not that one. I know heartlessness when I see it, and that was not it; not when I could practically see the corpse of that poor child still reflected in his eyes. Just thinking about it made my blood boil, but getting emotional was not going to help the situation or save anyone. At the moment, the best I could do was help Sherlock figure out how to bring down the sick low life that did this. If ever I could sharpen his intellect or focus his senses, I needed to do it now. And I suppose I could do it by pretending to believe that he was the cold machine that he pretended to be. That moment was not his best at being the calculating machine but I suppose that was why it was so important for me to believe it.

I was in familiar territory; I still remembered the time when I truly believed that Sherlock didn't care, that the mask he put on was his true face. I've learned better over the years but I still remember. "That was a little more than a minor setback, Sherlock," I growled. Truth be told, had I truly believed that he didn't care, I might have started shouting by now. Or perhaps just left.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice, however, and rose to the bait as predicted. "A minor setback in relation to catching this serial killer." He didn't rub his hands in glee the way he usually did with the mere mention of a serial killer. However, his hands did still.

"I'd hate to see what a major setback is," I mumbled. "Sherlock, that was _Billy_..."

"_I saw that,_" Sherlock snapped, "but the best thing – the _only_ thing – we can do now is pour all our efforts into catching his murderer," it started out as an angry outburst and became a dangerous growl. His breathing was under control again he seemed less likely to burst from nervous energy. Instead, his jaw was clenched and the beginnings of a snarl were on his lips, his eyes glaring strong enough to burn down England. I could sympathize; I was feeling something a bit similar myself. "We can grieve later."

Now that Sherlock was more focused, I stopped antagonizing him. "Alright. Alright, fine. What do we do now, then? I warn you, though, anything short of walking up to the bastard and shooting his brains out won't satisfy me."

Sherlock grimaced, "Petty revenge, John? No, we will bring _that man_," he said man as if it were the worst insult the English language had to offer, "to justice, using whatever means necessary."

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, clenching and unclenching my fist (while imagining the murderer's neck was between my fingers), making the rage that was simmering inside me ebb somewhat. "Alright." I nodded, taking a few more deep breaths. "Have anything in mind?"

I could see the moment when he thought of something. That moment when everything became clear and obvious to him, and his body stilled to bask in the beauty of the solution. When he looked back at me, he grinned the way a wolf might, and said, "It might be dangerous."

I didn't say anything in response. Instead, I went upstairs to my room to get my old Sig Sauer. "You know I'm your man," I said when I came back down, armed, "anytime, any place. Just say the word."

Sherlock's smile became dangerously close to fond before he snapped himself back into his case-mode. "Let's go then."

"Let's."


End file.
